This Is Noise
by Sheppard SD
Summary: [Shep's Challenge: 1/12] See, having a blessing and a curse so volatile and unruly simply break is just about the worst possible thing that could happen. And that's why it did.
1. I

«I»

 **This Is Noise.  
I.  
Kids.**

«I»

* * *

 _It's alright, it's just a flesh wound  
You said you never saw it coming  
I'm pretty happy lying here with you  
It's pretty good to feel something _

_I don't care about nothing but you  
I don't care about nothing  
I don't care about nothing but you  
No I don't care about nothing_

* * *

«I»

* * *

Marcus always found downtown fascinating on a weekend afternoon. There usually weren't people wandering the streets barring a stubborn handful, and cars usually stuck to the interstate roads that drove right around or even straight through town. Still, there were less people today, as the chilly late autumn weather kept adventurers inside. Weather that even went so far as to dump the remnants of a weak coastal tropical storm in the area, swelling the river and making the town's aura even more soggy and dreary. Marcus, however, saw opportunity when the rain cleared up.

The town wasn't small, per say, but it certainly wasn't a city either. The town hall building in the heart of downtown stood the tallest, with banking buildings trying their might to reach the spire atop the hall's signature marbled dome. The perimeter: neatly placed blocky structures nestled beside one another branded in clean stone with their intention, while small trees and streetlights separated the street from the grid-like sidewalks. Banks, law firms, and trust companies dominated the downtown district, but sprinkled in amongst the corporate footprint were small restaurants and bars, secondhand stores, furniture shops, and anything else one might find in a larger small-town like this. A light overcast darkened the properties somewhat, but it almost made downtown seem more… natural.

Marcus—cloaked in a fully-zipped navy hockey jacket and similarly colored rink-suit pants—wandered downtown with no discernible purpose other than to admire the scene before him. See, Marcus was a very visual person. Sure, the young son of famed mercenary Fox McCloud loved listening to music and loved to read—even more so than the average guy—but if you put him in a new environment and told him to explore, he'd lose his mind (in the good way, of course). The teenage vulpine walked at a gentle pace, eyes constantly moving and combing over his surroundings as if he had never seen them before. He didn't smile. He didn't whisper to himself in awe. He merely walked around observantly, absorbing the scenery with a nearly expressionless gaze. When your head goes into sensory overdrive, expressions simply clog the cognitive pipeline.

For the middle of the afternoon the day before a school day, downtown was awfully quiet. The lunch bistros were sparsely attended, the bars didn't even look like they were open despite numerous collegiate level sporting events being on, and… well, half of downtown looked closed. Sure, the closed banks may have constituted half of downtown, but that still left another half that should have been open, or at least more populated. Downtown almost looked partially abandoned, a note that made Marcus' tail wag just a bit. He could feel the tingle start to build behind his neck.

The cerulean-furred fox stopped at the corner where town hall sat and took out his phone to snap a quick picture. Something about the bleak, gray overcast melding with the dome of town hall made his ears tingle. Pictures like that from places he's explored littered his phone. It was an interest that he admired in a way. Regardless—before he got lost—Marcus doubled back and headed towards home. Six, Fifth, Fourth street; he counted them down as he minded the crosswalk signatures and crossed when it was his turn, even though traffic was not an issue today.

Home for him and his parents was a township called Berrien; a couple hours north of the capital Corneria City. For the McCloud household, this place was a nice area to settle down; away from a bustling metropolis but still in a residential hub. Not buried in the ultra-modern settlement, but far from the middle of nowhere with no amenities. Both Marcus' parents were semi-retired (and had been ever since Marcus was born sixteen years ago), but they occasionally came out to instruct a class of future pilots or even partake in an assignment if there was nobody else to fill their shoes. To them, they really couldn't stay away from something they both regarded so dearly. Still, they wanted to spend the majority of their time away from professional life. Marcus agreed; it was nice to spend a lot of time with them. But, he also valued his time away from family too. It was a balanced dichotomy that kept his life interesting and manageable no matter what.

It's worth noting that downtown Berrien was a familiar place for Marcus, since all of his thoughts and reactions in said habitat would say otherwise. Even if it was a college town—with the college campus residing on the other side of town on top of the riverbank's hill, Marcus treated the place like it was _his_ college town despite being too young to be a college student. He treated this environment like a vacation despite this environment being his home. And no, the vulpine didn't have amnesia or anything of the sort. If anything, he caught the subtle changing nuances of the town easier than others. He was, in fact, more of a visual and perceptive person than anyone else that would label themselves as such, so even the slightest change in the norm would feel different to him.

A pedestrian bridge was one of the only seams connecting Downtown Berrien with the residential district, since a wide river cut the town in half. Marcus walked close to the railing to observe the swollen river; water creeping up the riverbanks only to splash the plant life living next to it, disrupting fallen leaves and twigs as if the river needed to consume them to keep flowing. The roar of rushing water was a welcome sound; one of his favorites. The blustery wind left over from the storm tunneled between the riverbanks and blew into Marcus' face, ruffling his cerulean fur and disturbing the longer tuft of white hair curled over the crown of his head. The cold breath of life from the river couldn't crack his jacket, so he simply cracked a smile at the sensation.

See… as a Cerinian hybrid, Marcus was blessed with both the best and the worst of either race. As a Cerinian, he became very sensitive to the world around him, not in the _fragile_ connotation of the word but the _responsive_ one. As noted, his senses picked up on every little change in his surroundings; meticulously discerning every negligible detail and overanalyzing them—each little change getting picked up by the vulpine and responding with an appropriate sensation. However, the Cornerian in him twisted that heightened sensitivity into a plethora of headache-inducing layers of anxiety and fear. The instinct of a more aggressive race mixed with that of heightened senses and intellect created a melting pot of trouble that the poor fox had to come to terms with very _very_ early in his life. But, he managed.

By choice, Marcus enjoys his time alone. He engages his hobbies, he treats his intellect, and he explores with wonder as to not disturb the volatile mindset inside. However, being antisocial would be just as bad. He has his close-knit group of friends he holds near and dear to him to calm his nerves and enjoy life with. At this age, some major decisions are being made one after the other, so holding his life together by what he has is his top priority whether he wants to feed that demon or not.

And then there was the static. Being a Cerinian with his heightened senses, some of the more nuanced changes could invoke a response from deep within him, characterized by a blissful tingle that washed over parts of his body all the way up to his entire being; calming his nerves and his mind in one smooth, pulsating wave. Marcus lived for this feeling of delightful static. He did everything in his power to get the static to come back as often as it could, as it fought off a lot of his Cornerian instincts that made daily life difficult. Changing habits, changing relationships, changing anything… because without that static—

Another gust of wind, one Marcus slipped a soft grunt through his teeth at in response before twisting his boots and planting his bodyweight into the bridge's foundation, hopeful his jacket wouldn't turn into a wind sail. He raised an arm to shield his eyes until the wind subsided, to which he relaxed and let his mind wander again. The crisp, freshwater air filled his nose and left a refreshing taste on his face to gently lap up with his tongue. His dipstick tail loosened and breathed with the remaining breeze.

Supper would be ready soon. Prying himself from his perch overlooking the intrepid river below, Marcus said goodbye to his flowing friend and continued walking. At the base of the walkway on the other side, expansive housing units dotted an angled grid following a narrow, winding road that also crossed the river on his left. The complexes stretched a few stories tall and sat interspersed on this road as it climbed the riverbank's long, rather steep hill. The buildings simply conformed to the topography of the land, following the road towards the apex to seem as though the buildings were a part of the hill's incline as well. The buildings branched out from this road, but not very far from his vantage point.

Marcus took note of the town's aura. The deep overcast obscuring the daylight gave this side of town that same dreary undertone as Downtown had. The residential complexes did as much as they could to stand out from one another, whether it be architecturally or creatively; but here they all appeared the same. No amount of lights or advertisements could bring any of these buildings into the spotlight with this kind of overcast concealing them.

Paws in his front pockets, the blue fox continued to walk along sidewalks and storefronts on his way home. His jacket beaded the water from crossing the river earlier, but has since dried up in the post-tropical storm wind. The deep navy accentuated his cerulean fur quite nicely, hence why he chose this particular rink-suit as opposed to the others he had. Seeing his hockey jacket reflected in the storefront glass reminded him of his practice tomorrow evening. His district is entering into a tournament with some of the surrounding districts in the next couple of days, so he wants to be there for every second of practice just so he knows he's done everything he could to prepare. He'd worry about that when the time came.

The Cerinian hybrid followed the main road until it intersected a wide interstate just before the hill's incline ramped up. He crossed it when his turn came, which put him in front of an apartment complex on that corner; shallow in its distance to the hill but almost as long as the city block it sat on. He followed the sidewalk towards the hill but looped around to the backside of the complex, slipping between the building and the accompanying parking garage. He passed a few of the entry doors while fishing out a set of keys from his pockets. He stopped just short of halfway down the long building and flashed his keys at the door, to which it chirped and unlocked for him to slide inside.

The nearest concrete stairwell led him to the fourth floor in the rather expensive looking interior. Lavish isn't quite the right word, but it was definitely above average. The hallways were lined in dark polished hardwood; the walls and ceiling conversely white and unblemished. A dome light textured the ceiling in between each set of detailed white doors, a set of golden numbers drilled into the painted wood. Marcus continued until a set of numbers on his right looked homely, to which he flashed his keys again and was able to enter.

The McCloud household was indeed very homely. Warm colors predominated the small, minimalistic apartment to make the home feel inviting and comforting. An off-tan hue coated the walls, coupled by a rich dark hardwood finish on the floors. The apartment seemed more spacious because of its high ceilings and tall walls, to which a loft area resided on the left side of the home overlooking the living space below.

The home seemed to be divided into three sections judging by the locations of the walls. The living room greeted Marcus as he entered; slotted between two walls that signified rooms, making the living room appear like a deep indentation in the partitions. A large window almost as wide as the wall housing it sat flanked by some tan curtains, peeled back liberally to let as much of the obscured daylight inside. Within the living room cove laid a deep brown sofa and some lighter end tables on either side, a low bearing coffee table, and an entertainment center on the opposite wall. This section of the home was segmented by a dark tan carpet, with a narrow metal divider running the length of the two corner walls.

On Marcus's right resided the kitchen cove; overhead cabinets filled the wall as it looped around towards the door and stopped at the bar counter, hidden lights illuminating the space above it. The bar counter jutted out a few feet and stayed hollow aside from the end supporter, allowing a few matching barstools to lie underneath. The main kitchen amenities filled the rest of the back wall leading towards the small room intersecting the two coves, which was used for storage and laundry services. The partition concealing that room served as the family wall; numerous family photos filled that open canvas to break up the monotony and make the place feel more familiar.

To the left was a narrow hallway that only housed two doors, the nearside one leading into the bathroom and the farside one leading to Marcus's parents' room. On the wall closing off the bathroom was a narrow set of plain wooden steps leading up to the loft where Marcus called home. Most of that loft was open, only broken up by a smooth wooden balcony banister leading into the far wall, but that illusion of open space made it nicer to stay in for longer. Had it been sealed up as its own room, he might not have gotten the same enjoyment out of it.

Marcus's mom and dad were in the kitchen when he arrived back home. Fox—a hero of the Lylat system on more than one occasion—casually leaning on the bar counter while Krystal—a telepath who quickly found her niche in the illustrious mercenary outfit—talked to him, waiting for dinner to finish. See, when Marcus is described as a hybrid, this is another reason why. Marcus's vibrant cerulean fur was a near perfect result of his mother's deeper azure fur melding with the golden auburn fur of his father. He even inherited the band of white atop his head from his father, which he liked to grow out longer in contrast to dad. The hybrid also contracted dad's deep emerald eyes; eyes that could tell a story to anyone without even speaking.

Fox's head turned on a swivel when he heard the door latch. "Hey buddy," he spoke warmly as the front door sealed shut behind the hybrid.

"Hello Marcus," Krystal added softly, mirroring the smile.

"I'm back," Marcus smiled back. Another perfect hybrid; his voice picked up the same inflections and warmth from his mother, while his father's natural leadership tone snuck its way into the soft-spoken vulpine's voice. His voice was still young—being only sixteen will do that to you. Yet, even as it was barely used, Marcus's voice spoke with soft confidence; not that heavy voice that will command a room but a confident voice that can instill assurance and calm to anyone listening. He was a consenting young adult now, so his voice gradually adopted that tone with maturity.

"Good timing too; dinner is almost ready," said Fox, reaching underneath the bar counter to pull out the barstools. Meanwhile, Marcus stepped closer to the loft's staircase, kicked his boots off, and nudged them below the bottom couple treads. He returned in time to see Krystal fill three plates and set them down on the open countertop. Fox wound the counter to sit on the kitchen end so that Marcus could sit with Krystal on the other side. Marcus was met with a gentle hug from his mom once she sat on the stool beside him, which he returned.

"How was your walk today?" Fox asked, taking the initial bite of their home-cooked meal. "Anything interesting?"

Marcus shrugged. "The rest of that storm cleared up this morning," he replied, soft voice steady and relaxed. "Downtown was cloudy and dark. The river is pretty flooded too."

Fox nodded, a smirk on his face. "Well I'm glad you had fun. It's good exercise too."

Marcus simply nodded. It put a lot of ease in his vortex of a cerebral cortex knowing that his parents held no regrets or malice or anything of the sort in regards to his niche interests and quiet lifestyle. They have been—and probably will still be—a big source of inspiration and support for the vulpine for years to come, as a matter of fact. His father: a determined and wise leader with some sort of experience in everything important. His mother: a devoted and loving caretaker with charm and tricks that not everyone may know. Together: an inseparable and powerful duo full of creative problem solving, skillful execution, and a plethora of life-hacks that simply come with age and experience. Marcus was and forever will be grateful for such an important pair of heroes in his life as they were. He didn't take them for granted, but he didn't abuse their presence either.

"I wanted to wait until you got back home to mention this," Fox continued, playing with his plate for a few seconds as if he were Marcus's age. "Your mom and I are gonna need to go up to the capital for a few days this week."

Marcus's head tilted ever so slightly. "Assignment?" he asked. He wasn't shocked; this was a relatively normal occasion for his parents to be away from the house for a few days at a time. More curiosity than anything, since there was no telling what they needed to leave for. He could sense they were happy when addressing it, so it probably wouldn't be anything bad.

"Not this time," his dad replied with a grin. "Instruction. There's a new system they installed they'd like to teach us. …and then most likely teach it to others while we're down there."

The fox nodded.

"We'll be away for a few days," his mom explained after a sip of water. "We're leaving tomorrow morning, and we'll be back in two days; three at the latest."

"Okay."

"That means you're responsible for your hockey practices and getting to school on-time, alright?" Krystal reminded, to which the cerulean vulpine nodded again. "Keep your gear cleaned after every practice; don't leave anything in your bag overnight. You have friends that can take you to the rink and back, right?"

"Yeah, I can ask Cal," answered Marcus. "His parents usually don't mind. They don't live far either."

"What about your boyfriend? Can he help?"

"He would, but he's still recovering from that concussion he got a few weeks ago. Guess his doctors told him he couldn't drive until he's all healed up."

"Ah, okay," Krystal frowned gently. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, Charlie's okay," Marcus grinned just thinking about him. There's that static again. "Wasn't as bad as they first thought, so he might be cleared to play in the tournament."

"That's good news," chirped the vixen. "How about school? Anything you need to study for?"

"Nope," Marcus shook his head, then readjusted his hair after. "But Charlie did ask me to help him get caught back up since he missed a bit of school. I was gonna do that after practice."

"Aww, that's very kind of you."

Fox smiled. "He's welcome to stay here while we're gone, as usual. It's a nice, quiet place to get some studying done." Krystal thankfully didn't catch the subtle wink the elder fox flashed as well.

Marcus smiled back and continued to finish his dinner. His parents did the same, and everyone was done not too long after. Marcus helped clean up where he could, but once his obligations were complete, he retreated upstairs into his lofted room.

The light switch near the corner of the wall after scaling the narrow steps flipped his bedside lamp on. Marcus's room stayed about as simplistic as the rest of their home, although his room was sizably larger than any of the other rooms in the apartment. The same warm wall color and brown carpet covered the loft, with a curtain just like the one by the windows spanning from wall to wall just in case Marcus wanted some privacy. His full-sized bed rested center justified against the back wall, just a few feet away from the massive window overlooking the living room. Atop it lied a large black comforter, two gray pillows, and an extra blanket or two tossed to the side. On either side of the bed were some bedside drawers; the one in the corner housing the lamp he just switched on. In front of his bed was a basic black futon set in front of his own smaller entertainment center. A desk and chair sat nestled between the wall and the entertainment center, while bookcases and dressers filled the long wall out behind that desk. Between the light switch and his mounted TV resided the door to his closet, though the apartment's amenities like the water heater and climate control unit rested in another door behind his belongings in the tiny walk-in-closet. Marcus only had to take a few steps to get anywhere in his loft, so it wasn't the most spacious place in the world. But, he liked the simplicity and small scale of his territory. It was like his little sanctuary.

A few hooks were fastened into the partition between his closet and the top of the staircase, so he stripped of his rink suit and set his jacket on the hook while leaving his pants in front of his closet door. Wearing just black boxer briefs and a simple gray hockey brand t-shirt, the hybrid threw himself atop his bed and rested; letting a long exhale through his mouth. Moments later, he brought up his phone to send a few messages.

At the top of his recent contacts sat Charlie Boeser, a long-time childhood friend turned lover within the last couple of months or so. His contact picture for him stayed the same since they started dating; both the cerulean vulpine and the chocolate brown coyote standing shirtless in front of a mirror, their white-ish ventral fur almost blending into one another while their arms locked behind each other. It was an older picture, since Charlie's black hair was much shorter in that picture. He also didn't have his glasses on like he does now… Still, it was his favorite picture of him. Maybe he should update it soon.

 **I have some good news** , Marcus's first message read. The front half of his bushy tail gently started wagging between his legs when he saw a reply being typed in the background.

 _ **I like good news**_ , Charlie answered back.

Marcus smiled. **Parents are away for a few days this week. Wanna meet up at my place after practice tomorrow?**

A few seconds rolled by before he got his answer. _**I can have my sister take me to practice, then she can take us to your place. She won't mind.**_

 **Sounds like a perfect plan to me.** Marcus paused for a moment before adding, **Do you still need homework help too?**

 ** _Nah, I can have someone else help me later_. **Marcus frowned as he watched another message form right after it. **_I mean, I'd rather spend more time with you over catching up on homework._ **

Marcus nodded. **That's true. Haha I'm glad to know where I sit on your power rankings.**

 _ **Hahaha no kidding.  
Look, days like this don't come often. I like your folks and all, but I'd much rather have the house to ourselves, you know?**_

 **Yeah, I got ya.** Marcus breathed and looked up at the ceiling a second before continuing. **How's the concussion?**

 _ **Sore**_ , was the lone response he received.

 **You gonna be okay for coming over?**

A few more moments rolled by watching the bubble disappear and reappear. _**I'll make sure I'm on my pain meds before I head out. I'll be dead before I miss some alone time with you.**_

 **Okay, just so long as you're cool.  
Wanna get a pizza for dinner after practice?**

 _ **You know me so well. ;3**_

Marcus laughed silently and set his phone down. He looked over his shoulder at the large window overlooking the apartment; what was left of the storm-dampened daylight had faded, being replaced by the glow of streetlights outside. He sat up and scooted to his bedside, letting his hind digits comb into the plush carpet as he gazed out the window.

From his vantage point, the relatively shorter buildings winding down the main road made a clear path to the riverbank. The bridge from downtown to the residential district had distinct lights brighter than the streetlights leading to and from it. Still, those lights seemed to blend together with the lights of businesses and apartment complexes alike; creating a soft gradient ranging from a warm yellow to a cold white and back to a warm orange again.

The wind rustled tall oaks and curbside shrubs alike, though the sound of leaves were masked by the whistle of the wind as it combed between the buildings and breezed up and down alleyways. Even the slightest screech of wind against the window made the vulpine's ears twitch and pivot, acting as though they wanted to pinpoint the origin of the gust itself. That soon stopped once he heard the TV start up, masking cathartic nature with artificial white noise. Marcus sighed and flung himself backwards on his bed.

He soon rolled to the end of the bed where the footboard met with the back of his futon. From there he could look above where he rests his head every day and see the shelves above; additions built and added to years after moving in. On those slabs of wood were Marcus's awards and treasures: trophies, medals, and team photos from past levels and games. The pictures spanned from when he first laced up a pair of skates when he was just a kit, to elementary and middle school level teams, to youth travel leagues and selected division teams. Marcus played for them all… getting bigger, stronger, smarter, and better in every way as he progressed. Every division trophy and participation medallion found their ranks amongst the memorabilia. Every team patch, every broken composite stick, every empty tin of wax… they were all up there as a sort of memento—a trophy case of his playing career.

Given his circumstances, he had every right to be proud of his ever growing collection.

A late bloomer, Marcus picked up the game ever since his parents took him to a playoff game in the big leagues in Corneria City when he was only six years old—a ticket he still has on his shelves. It wasn't the speed or the immense skill or the physicality he fell in love with… no. He fell in love with the sounds. The sensations. The sound of blades carving into the ice. The carbon fiber composite sticks slapping the ice and the plastic boards. The rattling of the plexiglass after every hit. Every slap against the puck, every shot against the iron posts, the sticks clashing against one another, the roar of the crowd melding into every goal horn and whistle blow… …Now at sixteen, those same sensations still make his ears and spine tingle after all this time.

The static building on the back of his head forced him to get out of bed. He slipped his rink suit pants and jacket back on, then grabbed a knit hat off the hooks as he made his way downstairs. After putting on and tying his boots, Marcus scooped his stick off the wall underneath the set of stairs and located a tennis ball near his shelves of padding and gear.

"I'm gonna go practice in the parking garage," Marcus announced, tapping his pockets to make sure his keys and phone were still on him.

"You've got about an hour before curfew, buddy," his dad reminded him just before his dipstick tail disappeared behind the front door.

On the ground floor, Marcus popped out of the same metal door he entered just a few hours ago. Instead of turning towards the street, he continued straight towards a hollowed out multi-level structure held up by thick concrete pillars. He wound the side of the garage until finding the access stairwell, to which he climbed to the top of the five levels. The open top level remained less than half-full, surrounded by taller complexes on three of the four sides with the fourth side open and overlooking the main road. Marcus preferred the top level because it didn't suppress the elements like the other floors would. Outside lights on the surrounding buildings and the parking garage itself provided ample lighting for the vulpine as he located his usual spot.

Facing towards his home, Marcus located a simple box painted onto the thick concrete walls. He called it his shooting box; no bigger than a single square foot. As it was sizably smaller than the usual net he shot at, this forced the blue vulpine to play a more precise game; a more accurate game. Doing this for a few years now had drastically helped him improve, or so he believed.

A left-handed shot, Marcus held the taped end of the stick with his right paw while usually keeping his left paw halfway down the shaft, occasionally relocating it depending on the circumstances. He started by tossing his ball to the ground and controlling it with the angled blade of the stick, careful to not let the weathered ball roll out of reach. To control it, Marcus twisted his left wrist back and forth to angle the blade of the stick while repeating quick "n" shaped movements overtop the ball as he swung left and right; angling his right arm in order to maintain leverage. He started to crouch his body down, moving his left paw towards the curved blade while his handlings became quicker. Forehand to backhand and back within a second, repeated over and over again with intensifying quickness as he stepped closer and closer to the wall. Suddenly, Marcus snapped his stick back, cradling the ball in the curve of his blade as he transferred his body weight from his back leg to his front, pushing down on the middle of his stick to make the composite bend. The stick instantly snapped forward, slinging the ball towards the wall with an audible smack as it impacted the concrete. As the ball rocketed back, Marcus let the blade of his stick lag behind him as he turned, slapping the returning ball in just a way to make it stop in its tracks. Right in the middle of the painted box.

The reverberations of the composite climbed the length of the stick until it transferred into his paws. The blade cradling and rolling the rough ball prolonged the reverberations; a gentle yet coarse murmur at his feet nearly swallowed up by the gusting wind. Just holding the composite in his paws felt incredible. As he backed up with the ball in his possession, his paws freely combed the smooth carbon fiber blend—claws caressing the synthetic finish. Gently rolling his wrist, Marcus guided the curve up and over the ball back and forth as he rolled the ball towards himself, away again, to his right then to his left and everything in between as if he needed to keep it moving and alive within his reach. The static intensified… so powerful… so pervasive…

He turned and blasted the ball into the box yet again. It careened back, but Marcus slapped it down and corralled it within a single second before firing it again. Again and again he pushed down and flexed the composite as he fired the ball into the same spot within the box again and again and again. He lost count after a dozen times of repeating the same motions—catching and grasping the rebounded ball within his reach before pushing off his back leg and repeating the shot as if he was passing to himself over and over again. Two dozen, three dozen, and probably many more after until one particularly awkward bounce launched the ball over his blade. He tried to react and control it behind his usual grip, but he only batted it away faster. Marcus huffed—a blast of fog leaving his maw as he pushed off his feet and chased after the ball. He was able to catch up to it and regain his control before it hit someone else's car on the other side of the narrow garage. The vulpine returned to his usual spot, then dropped down to his stomach and did ten pushups as punishment for missing his rebound.

The Cerinian usually lost track of time when practicing like this. What felt like two minutes to him could have been half an hour. With that sort of repetition in sharpening skills, time tends to take a back seat once a groove is set. Marcus continued his ritualistic practicing as he always did until he felt his phone chirp at him. He took a bit of a breather by setting his stick down on the concrete, rolling the ball into the crook of the blade, and then crossing his legs as he too rested on the ground.

 _ **Good news my dude, you've got a seat in my car to get to practice tomorrow.**_ It was Cal, one of Marcus's teammates.

The vulpine smiled and replied with a simple, **Great, thank you.**

 _ **Anytime. See ya at lunch.**_

Marcus took a deep breath through his nose; the cool autumn evening air chilled his whole body on the way down before exhaling the breath through his mouth with an expansive plume of fog. After examining the soft definition of the overcast clouds above, he scooped up his gear and left the parking garage. A minute or two later put him back inside the apartment, where his parents were watching something on the TV. Quietly, Marcus returned his stuff to their rightful locations before retreating upstairs once more. His rink suit was stripped away like last time, and only then could he unceremoniously throw himself into bed.

He couldn't chase the itch from his fingertips, nor the nagging poke at the back of his head that felt like someone was waxing the back of his brain. He wanted to lace his boots back up and practice until daylight returned the next morning. The anxiety aimed at the upcoming tournament just ate at him as much as he didn't want to worry about it. He was restless; contracting and relaxing his legs, thumping his tail against the sheets, stretching his joints, and breathing erratically to the point where his heart begged for peace. Oh how he wished someone could bring the static back.

Pretty soon, he noticed his mother climbing the stairs and gently stepping over to his bedside. He sat up and let his head hang, propping it up with his arms balanced on his legs as he exhaled heavily. Krystal sat beside him and gingerly pressed her head against his.

"You're anxious," she whispered silkily, hoping to get the right tone of voice to settle her son down. "What's wrong?"

Marcus just kept breathing, curling the tips of his fingers into his fur.

"Relax," the vixen sighed. "Being anxious is not good for you. It will only make you feel worse."

Marcus pulled one of his shaking hands away from his face. "I don't want to be anxious," he choked out.

"What worries you?"

"That tournament," he answered, staring at the floor as his ears twitched.

"You will do fine," Krystal's warm voice finally clicked as his shakes and restlessness started to melt away. She noticed this change and continued to talk in the same tone. "You always do. You worry before every big game and then you do very well once it starts. This happens every time. Don't let that bug get into your head this time."

Marcus put his paws over his chest and started kneading his knuckles, one hand at a time.

"You worry because you want to make your teammates proud," she continued, letting one of her paws slide over his. "They count on you because they know you are great. You mustn't worry for yourself because that takes away from your team. Confidence is the cornerstone of a good team, Marcus. Relax, and play the game the way you know how."

The hybrid slowly started to let his heartrate balance itself out. His restlessness soon vanished, and he was left with a serene body and a steadily calming mind. His mom took note of the positive changes and smiled at him.

"You will do great, I guarantee it," she added as she stood up. "You will be fine. There's nothing to worry about."

"Okay," Marcus fought away the emotions and let the whistling wind outside act as the white noise to empty his polluted headspace.

"I love you, dear," Krystal laid a gentle kiss on the crown of the vulpine's head.

"Love you too mom," he breathed back, grinning for the first time in what felt like ages. His mom soon stepped downstairs, leaving him with his thoughts. Minutes, hours ticked by; his surroundings changing ever so slightly as he chipped away at his anxiety. He decided to focus on his sense of touch to distract himself, letting his fingers wander about his bed. He tenderly pinched and rubbed the jersey fabric of his comforter while nuzzling his face into his pillow. His fingers then drifted into his pelt of fur; his winter coat almost in full bloom as his digits combed through his underbelly. His shirt was next to get picked at, and when he got tired of that, he flipped over onto his stomach and raked his hands across the sheets. Not only did the constant friction help keep him warm, the comforting sensations flooding his mind alleviated the stress to a manageable level.

Soon, even he and his typhoon of a consciousness succumbed to the power of exhaustion and drifted off into sleep.

* * *

«I»

* * *

Arctic Park; basically Marcus's second home. The converted shipping warehouse located in the outskirts of Berrien in the dying industrial district now stored two separate rinks, a training facility, and a small concourse for concessions and game-related gear. The second of these rinks was a usual target for practice twice a week for Marcus and his 18U team. As a district team, all of the players came from the city and surrounding suburban cities and townships, so it only made sense to have them play and practice in the heart of their recruitment town.

Inside the "home" locker room, a vast majority of the team were gearing up for a ruthless hour of practice in preparation for the tournament at the end of the week. A few stalls down from the door, Marcus slipped the suspender straps of his pants over his shoulders as his teammate to his left spoke.

"So, Marcus, wanna know what I heard today?" asked the small, yet brightly colored Aussie. His name was Zach; he played outside of Berrien in a smaller town to the west, so usually he only got to talk with him at practices or at games. Shame too, he was a nice guy to talk to. Lots of energy, and a lot of fun to play with.

"What's up?" asked Marcus, making sure his straps were done tightly.

"That tournament in Corneria City?" he started, the symphonic sounds of Velcro straps, unravelling tape, and other conversations filling the locker room as he spoke. "There's gonna be some junior scouts watching the whole thing."

Marcus's eyes narrowed as he pulled up his black socks over his leg guards. "What makes you think that?"

"Heard it from some of the event planners," Zach continued while tightening his elbow pads. "They reserved the press box and the club lounges in the arena for special guests for the whole weekend. Unless diplomats like themselves a game of high-school hockey, my guess is that they're bringing in scouts to watch."

Marcus had to raise his voice ever so slightly as he wound clear tape around his socks. "That's some pretty big news for them to not tell us."

"It _is_ just an educated guess on my part," Zach laughed to himself, tossing on his chest protector and fastening the straps tight.

"Guess so," Marcus concluded, doing the same as the canine beside him. After tightening those pads and slipping on his elbow protectors, the vulpine located a white practice jersey and yanked it overtop his pads. The jersey simply had his number on the back, 46. Once he went through the rounds of making sure his skates were tightened and his stick was waxed, Marcus scooped up his helmet and plopped it on his head, careful to pull his ears through the slits. He soon clicked the cage into place, slipped his gloves on, and exited the locker room with his stick in his hands.

The locker room emptied into a wide hallway where the other three rooms attached themselves onto. The white paint and puzzle-piece rubber paneling on the floors gave it a true hometown hockey rink feel. A set of metal double doors stood between the hallway and the rink itself; a rounded sheet of ice 200 feet long and 85 feet wide, surrounded by thick plastic boards and high plexiglass. The resurfacing doors were open, allowing Marcus to step onto the ice and take his first couple strides.

Standing on pure ice with blades of metal an eighth of an inch thick may not sound easy, but Marcus made it look so. The first couple steps he took on the ice were short stutter steps as he dug his blades into the ice and pushed off, exploding up the middle of the ice with a burst of speed. With one hand on his stick, he simply cut to the side and glided the length of the ice a few feet away from the sideboards, occasionally kicking off the ice one foot at a time to maintain speed. He crossed the hashmarks of the faceoff dot and started his turn, crossing his legs over one another and pushing to his left; rocketing by the goal line and the net before sliding back against the opposite side's boards going the other way. Marcus did this a few times at varying speeds while he waited for his teammates to follow him on.

Marcus got poked behind the knee by someone else's stick a few minutes later. Behind the cage of the player that soon skated beside him was a gray and white husky: his name was Cal. Cal was a longtime friend of Marcus, even attending the same school as him for the past few years. He was one of those guys that everyone liked in the locker room; funny, encouraging, and a true leader. No wonder coach assigned him the captaincy of the team.

"Yo, Marcsy," Cal bumped into the vulpine as he fell in line beside him. "Good to see ya."

"Good to see you too," Marcus chuckled, bumping the husky back. "Thanks for the ride again."

"Not a problem," Cal nodded.

The blue fox was about to say more, but suddenly noticed the feeling of being watched, and not in the bad way. Marcus quietly peeled off his course and glided towards the open doors, towards the source of that odd feeling. He twisted his skates to stop, then hopped off the ice in one fluid motion, catching his blades on the rubber padding to stabilize himself. He wandered around behind the boards towards the exit doors, looking around for that feeling that was getting stronger and stronger. Almost on cue, he glanced at the exit doors just as they were opening.

He did show up.

Marcus smiled as he stepped towards his visitor, tail wagging in his wake. The chocolate brown coyote Charlie had a smile on his face, but he cautiously looked over Marcus's shoulder towards the ice to see if anyone was watching them too closely. He simply held out a balled paw for Marcus to tap back with his glove.

"Hi Marcus," Charlie just laughed heartily. As his contact picture showed, the relatively tall and average coyote stood about as tall as Marcus did with his skates on. Sandy tan and rich brown fur coated his face and neck before it disappeared behind his black and red flannel shirt, while a plume of wavy black hair tapered off just below his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled back to show off his black stocking fur pattern that stopped at his elbows; the same black as his ears and the tip of his bushy tail. His sky-blue eyes stared at Marcus as they usually did when they were around, though they tended to stay a bit skittish this time as he constantly looked over Marcus to see if anyone was looking their way.

"Thanks for coming," Marcus grinned.

"Coach actually gave me a call and told me to come to practice anyway," laughed Charlie, adjusting the thick-rimmed glasses over his eyes. He had the same kind of voice Marcus did: a lighter and more curious sounding voice with undertones of confidence, but his sounded a bit richer and lighter compared to the blue vulpine. "So, I guess I would've been here anyway."

Marcus laughed too, but that laugh soon faded. "Why did coach call you here?"

Charlie shrugged. "Important announcement. Probably has to do with the tournament."

"Ah," Marcus nodded. "Here, I can walk you to the bench, so you don't fall." The hybrid guided Charlie over to the ice and let him step on. Marcus then kept an arm behind the coyote as the latter gently walked across the slick surface, not raising his boots from the ice in favor of sliding one foot in front of the other. "Speaking of the tournament; are you gonna be cleared?"

"I go to the specialist tomorrow after school, but I'm seeing a bunch over the next few days just for second opinion if I need one," Charlie explained. "I'm feeling much better today, so I'm hoping I can get cleared in time. Might not be able to play next practice, but I'm hoping to be dressed for the tourney."

"Good," breathed Marcus, cutting his skates the other way to stop by the bench. He reached overtop the half-boards and yanked on the metal latch to push the door to the bench open. Charlie had no issues stepping up from the ice onto the rubber padded bench area, so he stepped up again and took a spot behind the actual bench itself. A few minutes later, Coach—a much older gray-furred canine—took the ice and skated to the bench; blowing his whistle as he stopped. Marcus and the rest of his team drifted over and huddled around Coach.

"Alright boys, gather 'round," Coach barked as the players coasted towards him. "We'll start soon, but I got a few things to say first."

The coach hopped up and sat on the endboards, letting his stick dangle between his knees. "So, got some rumors flying around that I'm gonna settle. The tournament that's starting this weekend? Yes, there will be some junior scouts attending every game."

Almost on cue, murmurs started flying between players behind Marcus. He could pick out every single word everyone said, but was cut away from his thoughts by a couple _whacks_ of Coach's stick against the half-boards.

"Now, this isn't an excuse for any of you to go into business for yourself," the canine explained, booming voice quelling any murmurs from his team. "We've done well this season so far because of what we accomplish as a team. Your chemistry with one another is essential for such a big stage, and for a challenge like this.

"This ain't a cake-walk, boys… This will be the toughest tournament you will ever play in your careers as of yet. Our district only looks good on paper because of the numbers you kids can put up. There will be players in these other districts that will be faster than you, stronger than you, more skilled, smarter, tougher, and better in every possible way than you. But guess what? They don't have what you guys do. No matter what kind of training they do, no matter how many drills they do in a row or how many laps they can run, there's one thing they will never be able to do… and that's have the inseparable chemistry every one of you has with one another."

Coach smiled and dropped from his perch, kicking up a little bit of snow. "So, with that being said, we have some work to do. They may be better than you today, but by the time the puck drops in our first game, they won't be. Today and two days from now will be some of the hardest practices you'll ever attend. You will be sore, you will hurt, and you will feel every little ounce of agony so you can harness it. There is no improvement without pain, and there is no good team without the work you put in.

"Those junior scouts? They'll be watching your every move. Every stride you take, every pass, every shot; _everything_. They will write notes on every single one of you, writing down everything you did well, but also writing down each and every time you screw up. Nobody is perfect; nobody is exempt from making mistakes throughout the course of a game. I know everyone here isn't perfect… But everyone is free to minimize mistakes; everyone is free to make sure the game they play is as crisp and as perfect as they can make it out to be.

"Everyone is going to be playing at their best," Coach barked suddenly, slapping his stick against the ice. "Everyone is going to be playing their hearts out. So… that being said, if there was ever a time to prove your skills and love of the game to me, to your teammates, to the professionals, and to yourself… now would be the time. You want to be recruited and go to the next level? …Prove it. Show me you want it more than anyone else. Don't go into business for yourself to make a mark in the scout's books, because that's a certain way to let the team down. I don't want just a bunch of great individual efforts during that tournament: I want a great _team_ effort."

Coach slapped his stick on the ice again. "Are we good?!"

The team responded by repeating Coach's gesture in unison.

"Then show me! Lines! Myers, Schenn, McCloud; line up on my mark."

Marcus and two of his teammates—a larger white wolf and Zach from earlier, respectively—spaced themselves out at the goal-line at one of the ends of the ice while the rest of the team spread out behind them along the boards. At the sound of Coach's whistle, the three of them took off with explosive short strides. They were all aligned with identical speed until they hit the first one blue line about 65 feet down the ice. At that line, the trio of skaters dug their blades into the ice to instantly stop; a tsunami of snow raining into center ice in the process. They shot back in the opposite direction, with Marcus getting the jump on his teammates by crossing his skates over one another to replicate his explosive strides to start the drill. He shot down to the goal-line and repeated the stopping motion before turning around again to rocket down the way he just came, pumping his arms back and forth to maximize his speed. Instead of stopping at the blue line again, he sped all the way down to center ice before stopping again and returning to his origin point; his teammates in hot pursuit. The fire was building in Marcus's lungs by the time he repeated his crossovers and started skating back down the middle of the ice again, stopping at the opposite end's blue line before returning. One more lap saw Marcus blow by his returning teammates in order to race to the opposite goal-line and back—huffing and out of breath by the time Marcus cut to a stop at his own end. Seconds followed before his teammates stopped beside him, also completely winded from the exercise.

"Dwyer, Reilly, Stone; Lines!" Coach barked, tapping his stick again. "Go!"

Marcus doubled over and inhaled the cold air stemming from the ice to cool his burning chest. He idly skated along the boards as he watched three more of his teammates skate back and forth on the painted lines, fighting through the pain as he did.

Practice today was going to be grueling and punishing. Just the way he liked it.

* * *

«I»

* * *

Marcus hopped out of the back seat and trotted around to the bed of the truck to pull his heavy bag of gear out. While doing so, he could hear Charlie give his thanks to his sister as he too exited the vehicle. Once they made sure they had everything, his sister pulled away and left the duo at the base of the parking garage. They watched the truck disappear around the nearby buildings and up the hill. Charlie chuckled and gave Marcus a little nudge. Marcus laughed back, adjusted his bag on his shoulder, and led the coyote towards the apartment building.

Upon opening the front door to his apartment, the hybrid flipped the lights on and gingerly guided his bloated bag through the threshold. He didn't waste any time after Charlie shut the door behind him; he set his bag near the staircase and started to unload his pads on the shelves underneath the stairs to air out and dry. Meanwhile, Charlie took a few steps into the apartment, looking over everything in his wake.

"I still can't get over how nice your place is," Charlie chuckled to himself, staring up at the high ceiling.

"It's nice," Marcus agreed, scooping up the clothes he wore underneath his equipment. He stepped past Charlie and into the kitchen, where he tossed the dirty clothes into the laundry room and shut the door behind him. He stopped just before the bar counter and sniffed the fold of his arm. He tried not to cringe but failed. "So, let's go pick up a pizza and then I'll jump in the shower once we're done."

"Good plan," Charlie smiled, following Marcus out the door again. While the vulpine locked the door behind him, Charlie added, "You're pretty on-top of everything today, eh?"

Marcus grinned and looked at the floor as he walked towards the stairwell. "I just want everything to go perfect today," he explained. "I don't get to see you outside of school very often."

"I'd say it's pretty perfect already," Charlie replied happily, his tail refusing to stop wagging.

Daylight was starting to fade as the duo exited the apartment building. All they needed to do was cross the main street, and about half a block later would be the usual pizza parlor Marcus and his parents frequented. They joked around together all the way there and all the way back, which—by the time they returned to the apartment—daylight had faded entirely and nightfall had set in, forcing the streetlights to illuminate the path back home.

Marcus set the pizza box on the bar counter when he got back home, then wandered over to the staircase to kick his boots off. Charlie removed his shoes as well while Marcus quickly scaled the stairs to hang up his hockey jacket with the rest of his coats, and the two pulled out the bar stools from underneath the counter and sat down to eat. Charlie rolled up his sleeves and removed his glasses before taking his first slice.

"Gosh, you don't know how bad I wanted to get out on the ice earlier," Charlie sighed.

"I could feel it," Marcus nodded his head solemnly. "You were antsy."

"Well, antsy not just about wanting to play again." Marcus looked at him curiously, feeling Charlie's anxiety building like his own. The brown canine just sighed again. "You're lucky Coach wanted to talk to everyone today. There's a reason why I don't like going to practices just to watch, _especially_ if you're there too."

Marcus just silently nodded his head.

"I kinda just want to tell the team we're seeing each other and get it over with," remarked Charlie absently. "But with the tournament coming up, it's not the right time."

Again, Marcus just nodded.

"I feel like I keep saying that whenever I bring it up," he then looked up at the ceiling. "I mean, we've only been together about four months, but still. They're our teammates and they should know. But it doesn't really affect them any so they don't _need_ to know. But then I feel like I'm keeping a secret from them, eh?"

"I know," the fox pointed his snout at the table. "They haven't asked, so…"

The coyote shrugged. "Why should they? I don't see any of them asking outright; it doesn't concern them."

"Then I wouldn't worry about it too much," suggested Marcus.

Charlie gave the fox a grin. "You? Telling me not to worry? I think that might be a first, eh?"

The vulpine just chuckled in response.

"Yeah, I guess it doesn't matter," Charlie said while finishing up his slice. "What; are we just gonna walk in the locker room and go, " _yeah, so we're dating because we're gay as a rainbow and_ —"" he couldn't even finish before busting up into laugher. Marcus found his laugh contagious and joined in on the lighthearted fun.

"Hey now, you know that's not right," Marcus finally interjected in amongst his own laugh. His boyfriend wiped his face with the back of his arm.

"Sorry, couldn't pass up the joke," he added mirthfully before stealing another slice.

"I just like hearing you laugh," Marcus smiled. Once Charlie looked back at him, he could feel his fur on his arms start to spike as a blissful chill ran up and down his spine.

"Ah, the static," Charlie laughed again, this time on purpose. "Gosh, that's still so cute."

Marcus exhaled peacefully as his eyes slowly shut. "You're still the only person that can do that to me so easily."

"I still find it odd," the canine scratched his chin.

"Well, it's my senses," Marcus explained softly, still trying to draw out the chills and tingles before they faded. "There's certain things that I hear, touch, or see that… just make me happy. They're cathartic. It helps me calm my feelings down instead of me being an emotional mess every day. You don't see it much because you've been such a big help for me, and that's why I care about you so much."

Charlie hummed. "I never asked," he started. "But did your ex-girlfriend have that effect for you?"

"She did for a while," Marcus explained. "Her voice reminded me of my mother, and her fur was always very soft. But… she never could keep the static… not as well as you can."

Charlie beamed warmly.

"That's partly the reason why I don't like being called gay, 'cause I'm not," Marcus added on, his eyes continuously drifting about the room. "I just… I like the static, and I love anyone who can easily bring it up again and again. I won't care who it is so long as they can help me relax and calm down like that. I'm just weird like that, I guess."

Charlie finished his second slice. "Well, I'm glad I can be here for you. For me, I… I don't wanna mince words, but above all else, I find you very attractive." The coyote ended up blushing as he stammered out the rest of his words. "I mean, I know you're probably not attracted to me in the same way I am to you, but I—I guess…"

Marcus smiled back again, not realizing he too was blushing because that also added to his prolonged static. "I understand."

"You're also my best friend, and I love my friends," he paused for a brief moment to draw out the mood. "Especially my best friend, eh?"

"Now you're just trying to butter me up," laughed Marcus.

Charlie smirked. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't think it."

The duo ate the rest of their dinner in relative peace and quiet. Charlie occasionally brought up a hockey topic that they'd chat about for a handful of seconds, but it would soon devolve into silence yet again. Pretty soon thereafter, the pie was gone and they were stuffed. After they cleaned up, Marcus remembered that he needed to shower. He slipped into the bathroom and started the water, then left the room while waiting for the water to heat up. He ran upstairs to grab some clothes—just a worn-out hockey shirt and a fresh pair of boxer briefs—before scuttling back downstairs again.

Just before he could shut the bathroom door, Charlie's paw slipped through and held the door open. "Marcus, wait," he started, tail wagging wildly behind him. "Your jock."

Marcus snickered softly. "Right. Almost forgot you were weird."

Charlie gave him a toothy grin. "Think of it as my own static. I like your after-practice smell."

The blue vulpine nodded and undressed, then tossed the used clothing article at the canine. He didn't wait to see his reaction before shutting the door, but he could sense the happiness and relief from the other side of the wall. He tested the water flooding out, then stepped in to get clean. It was hot; just as he liked it. He could feel the grime and sweat melting from his fur, pooling at his feet before getting swept down the drain. Often times Marcus liked to rest the crown of his head against the wall, letting the steaming water cascade upon his neck and work at the ever-present stress on his upper back and neck. He had a patch of fur that was significantly shorter than anywhere else right where the water pressure impacted him, as he tended to lose track of time whenever the static reemerged.

Marcus then backed away from the nozzle to scratch some fresh suds into his fur. A citrus blend that normally left his fur soft and fluffy after drying it out. Not wanting to waste time this go around, Marcus hastily lathered it over himself before scrubbing it away, careful to wash it out with the grain of his fur on his arms and legs to avoid any unnecessary knots. He then flipped the shower off and let himself drip for a few moments while the water and suds slipped down the drain. Once that was done, he activated the dryer mechanism standard in Cornerian households. Holding out his arms and keeping his tail raised, a warm jet of air bombarded the hybrid. Within a few minutes, his fur was clean and dry; easy as that.

He stepped out of the shower and scooped up a hairbrush to tackle the knots in his hair. As much as he loved his soft pelt—even more so as his winter coat began to grow in—he did find it troublesome to take care of. Sweat while playing and practicing didn't do his fur any favors. Still, it was a chore he had come to accept and get good at, because his full pelt was smooth and rich just after a handful of minutes. He slipped his clothes on shortly after, then exited the bathroom.

Charlie was sitting at the counter when he walked into the main room; his jock resting perfectly on the bridge of his muzzle. When he noticed Marcus exit, he tossed the dirty clothes aside and trotted up to meet him. He said nothing, instead leaning into Marcus and giving him a big sniff.

"Much better," Charlie exhaled, chuckling when Marcus nudged him away.

"You're a big dork," Marcus replied, motioning for the canine to follow him upstairs.

"And so are you, but you're _my_ big dork," cooed Charlie, swatting at Marcus's fluffy dipstick tail as he followed it up into the loft. He couldn't resist gently clasping onto the appendage and ruffling the fur. "Gosh you're so soft."

Marcus and Charlie spent the next couple hours playing video games on the former's futon. The vulpine never claimed to be good at them, but he enjoyed playing them in the company of his friends more than anything.

He was too lost in thought to concentrate on playing. He was very lucky to consider Charlie his friend; even more so now that they were considered boyfriends. He never really found it odd that he wasn't attracted to Charlie the way Charlie was to him. It was admirable in a way; more of a humbling statement knowing the canine was _genuinely_ attracted to his boyfriend. Even still, as much as Marcus cared about him, the fox found himself attracted to the static Charlie could invoke so easily more than the being that was Charlie. Even when his attention stayed with the video game he played with him, his mind was focused on sharing a bed with him; cuddling up and feeling the warmth he fell in love with. His soft fur, his gentle touch, his relaxing voice, and everything else that triggered his static so well. Nobody could reliably bring about that static as well as he could.

Marcus set his controller down first. "I'm exhausted," he sighed, stretching out his arms. "Wanna call it for tonight?"

"Sure," Charlie did the same motion, then turned the devices off. Marcus took off his shirt and tossed it off to the side of the room, then sat on the edge of the bed. Seconds later, he saw Charlie's wadded shirt discarded on top of it. He looked over his shoulder to see the shirtless coyote wander to the other side of the bed and slide beneath the comforter. Marcus smiled back, but turned his attention to the window.

The cerulean fox sighed deeply, a sigh that wasn't ignored by the canine.

"You okay?"

Marcus simply stood up and wandered over to the loft's railing, crossing his forearms atop the wooden banister as he put his weight onto one leg.

"Marcus?"

The life in the vulpine's tail disappeared. "I'm fine, just…" he didn't know what to say after that, so he chose to stay quiet. He heard the bed rustle behind him, and listened as Charlie's footsteps walked towards him. He laid his long muzzle atop Marcus's shoulder while snaking his arms across his chest and stomach.

"Talk to me?"

Marcus let his own head lay limp atop Charlie's. "I miss playing with you."

"I know," replied Charlie, his claws combing through Marcus's soft ventral fur. "Accidents happen though, and I'm glad it wasn't a serious concussion. Who knows if I'd get to play again if it was."

"Don't talk like that," Marcus interrupted, a sudden urgency filling his voice. "It was awfully close to being serious."

"But it wasn't," Charlie replied, backing up from his hold and sliding in beside the vulpine. "No use dwelling over it now that I'm almost better, eh?"

"I just don't like seeing you hurt."

"I don't like _getting_ hurt either, but—" here the coyote shrugged his shoulders. "—this game is dangerous. Only thing you can do is play your game and hope you don't get hurt. If and when you do get hurt someday, I guess luck just wasn't on your side then."

Marcus nodded his head. "I don't want to get hurt."

"I dunno; sometimes that's out of your control," Charlie let a chuckle slip through his teeth to alleviate some of the darkness surrounding them. "But let's not think about that."

Again, Marcus nodded his head. "You're right," he said, draping an arm around the coyote and dragging him towards his bed. "Let's just get some rest."

"Agreed," Charlie said, taking off his glasses and setting them on the nightstand before slipping underneath the covers yet again, shuffling over to let Marcus slip in beside him. Marcus flipped the lights off, then followed Charlie into bed. He wasted no time in getting comfortable, pressing his chest against the coyote's back and bringing his arms around him to hold him in place. Charlie just let his arms go limp next to Marcus's while the latter gently laid his muzzle over the side of the former's face.

Marcus's legs chased Charlie's as the coyote curled up slightly, allowing Marcus to get a firm hold on him despite being smaller in comparison—even if it was only about an inch and ten pounds less difference. Marcus liked to hold, and Charlie liked to _be_ held; a perfect dichotomy when cuddling up to go to sleep.

"I hope you're cleared for the tournament," Marcus thought out loud.

"I do too," replied Charlie. "It's a big moment for us, and I want to be a part of it."

Marcus's arms tightened around the coyote's midsection, forcing every little bit of air between himself and his boyfriend away. He could feel his fur start to interlock with the coyote's back like Velcro as his hold tightened. A low purr slipped through Marcus's maw as static began to build in his head. He intensified the sensation by letting his paws wander; his digits gently petting and ruffling the cream-colored fur on Charlie's chest. Charlie hummed while the fox felt a tail slip through his legs and come into contact with his own. He allowed his feather-duster of a tail to snake around Charlie's. That simple action allowed the static to travel down his spine and into his tail; euphoric tingles combing over his body like he combed over Charlie's chest.

Charlie whispered something sweetly, but Marcus didn't comprehend what it was. By the time he wanted to ask, Charlie was snoring softly into his pillow. He was a light sleeper, so the fox simply let his body slowly start to shut down for the night. The combination of the blissful static coupled with the feeling of his boyfriend in his arms made it surprisingly easy for Marcus to drift into sleep.

* * *

«I»


	2. II

«II»

 **This Is Noise.  
II.  
Everchanging. **

«II»

* * *

 _It's alright, it's just a flesh wound  
You said you never saw it coming  
I'm pretty happy lying here with you  
It's pretty good to feel something _

_I don't care about nothing but you  
I don't care about nothing  
I don't care about nothing but you  
No I don't care about nothing_

* * *

«II»

* * *

Marcus shuffled his skates on the red paint, side-stepping between the hash-marks with the puck practically glued to his stick. Navy jerseys were starting to swarm around him and cut off his openings. However, in the wake of the defensive play aimed against him, he sensed a teammate's skates cut back against the grain and glide towards the endboards. Marcus pivoted to put his back towards the defense, cradled the puck on his backhand, and then shoveled the rubber along the boards to a wide-open teammate behind the opposing net. The trove of navy jerseys dispersed, allowing the blue vulpine to inch towards the goal line. After a moment, the puck was given right back to him in the same manner he sent it off. Within a second he had transferred the puck from his backhand to his forehand and launched it back at the white jersey hugging the blue line heading towards center ice. As his teammate straddled the zone and slid towards the middle of the ice, Marcus did the same by slipping through navy sweaters on his way to the slot—the open patch of white ice in between the in-zone faceoff circles.

He saw the puck get launched from the blue line towards the net—a heavy snap shot looking like it wasn't intending to score. Marcus twisted his skates and kept a watchful eye on the puck rocketing towards the goaltender beside him. Simple flat shot, about chest high. He reacted in a split-second, holding out the blade of his stick in front of the goaltender. Before the navy goalie could gobble up the simple shot, the puck glanced off the blade of Marcus's stick, immediately changing the trajectory of the rubber disk missile. Instead of careening into the crest of the goaltender, the puck simply shot down and slipped between his legs, avoiding every little bit of padding on his legs in the process. Marcus didn't even see the puck go in the net; he just reacted happily when he felt the netting sway upon impact.

Coach's whistle blew. "Nice play," he barked, gliding into the zone from center ice. "Cal: good keep in on the blue line, but always keep your back turned from center on your-off hand. I know you'll be playing the other side in the tournament, but be willing to adapt in case of a half-line change."

The husky nodded. "Yes, Coach."

"Defense: nice job at containing the play," Coach continued, directed at the navy sweaters. "It's important to pressure the puck holder, but don't sacrifice your positioning. You left Marcus all alone in the high-slot next to your goaltender! Even if you're covering someone half as good as McCloud, if you're not covering that guy in the slot and a shot comes in from the point, it's gonna get deflected and go in, or they'll just swat in a rebound. Always guard your man, and protect your goalie."

Coach then stuck his stick out to tap Marcus on the back. "Great awareness to get that puck in deep, Marcus. And Zach!" he suddenly shouted and looked up towards the net. "Behind the net isn't always gonna be viable, son. Be prepared to back up towards the faceoff dots, and don't be afraid to just shoot it on net if there's nobody open."

Coach slapped his stick on the ice. "Alright! Same play; offensive zone control. Dwyer: sub in for McCloud." He then glided towards Marcus to quietly say, "Wanna talk to ya for a sec, aright?"

"Okay," Marcus nodded, instinctively changing his footing to coast over to the bench.

Coach skated backwards across the blue line as he waited for his players to take position. Once they were ready, Coach blew his whistle to start the play. Coach then skated back towards the bench and towards Marcus, keeping a watchful eye on the ongoing drill.

"So, McCloud," Coach's gruff, authoritative voice undertook a more calm and sincere approach when his naturally booming voice was lowered. He held out his gloved paw for Marcus to bump back; a usual sign of praise from the elder canine. "Great positioning, great passes, great hand-eye. I can tell you've been working on that. But…" he showed a little bit of a snarky smile. "Today, I noticed you've been a little slow on your feet. Your zone entry is skittish, and you're shying away from those dirty areas. You're playing timid today. Is something up?"

Marcus watched as the two defensemen on the white team passed the puck back and forth near the blue line to try and find an opening down low. Once the one on the right batted the puck down the half-boards, the vulpine answered, "Oh, I, uh, just wanted to play safe when we're this close to the tournament."

Coach pursed his muzzle. "You know how I feel about playing safe, Marcus. If you're not giving your all, you're not learning, therefore not improving."

"Yes, Coach," Marcus hung his head a little.

"You don't usually play safe," Coach remarked, but had to stop for a brief moment to shout "SKATE! SKATE!" down the other end of the ice.

"I know," Marcus answered softly. "I just don't want to take any chances."

"You know this," Coach started, switching into his leader's voice, "What separates a good player and a great player is that willingness to take chances and make the plays nobody else wants to. Sometimes taking chances is what your team needs you to do."

"I just don't want to get hurt, Coach," Marcus breathed. "Charlie got hurt and I don't know if he'll be cleared to play tomorrow. I can't get hurt too; it'll weaken the team and then we'll fail."

"Marcus, listen to me for a second," Coach began, resting his glove on the vulpine's shoulder. "It's part of the game to get hurt now and again. It's not the team's fault if you get injured, and it's certainly not your fault if you _do_ get hurt and the team suffers. What _is_ your fault is if the team fails because you're not giving your all. It doesn't matter if you're hurt or get hurt or stay healthy; I want all of my players to give it their all. If you get hurt; it's just bad luck. You can't change when your body decides to fail. What you _can_ do is make the most of it before it does. Nobody is going to be an ironman and play every single game they're needed to. I need you to play hard like you always do. Understand?"

Marcus nodded. "Yes, Coach. I understand."

Coach looked up when he heard tapping sticks and blew his whistle, then shouted, "One more time! Ready?" He blew his whistle shortly after, then turned his attention back to Marcus. "I know you're concerned because of what happened to Charlie, but he's tough, just like you are. I'm sure he'll be fine. Plus, we dominated the games we played this season even without him, so I'm not worried about injuries. We're a great team. We'll adapt. Don't be timid about playing hard today, okay?"

"Yes, Coach."

Coach skated back just a little to lean on the half-boards separating the empty bench. "I get why you're worried about Charlie," he nodded his head. "He and you have some great chemistry. It's like you two always know where the other is going to be in the play. It's impressive to watch, really." The canine paused to watch the drill for a few moments. "This season seems better about that, though. Anything changed?"

Marcus almost held his breath. "Well, he and I are best friends so we practiced together a lot over the summer."

"You two seem more confident," Coach remarked. "Not afraid to make plays that you might not have last season. I don't think that's something a little practice over the summer can do."

Marcus's ears fell.

Coach pulled himself closer by tugging on the back of the endboards. "Safe play, now shallow answers. I don't think it's the injury worry. Something's bothering you."

Marcus looked up with wide eyes as to say, 'please don't press me'.

"If you don't want to talk about it, I'll leave you be," Coach shrugged. "But I'll lose my confidence in you and make you sit the tournament out if you're not gonna play at the top of your game. I need to know what's wrong."

Marcus's whole body sulked as nerves pummeled him from every angle, but he fought through the anxiety and swallowed his pride as he looked towards Coach with renewed vigor.

"I'm… concerned about getting hurt because I saw Charlie get hurt, and I care about Charlie because…" he wanted to stop, but forced the rest out sheepishly, "Well… he and I have been dating for a while."

Coach didn't seem to react at all, aside from a simple, natural exhale. "How long?"

"A few weeks before this season started," answered the vulpine. "Couple months now."

"And now everything makes sense," Coach let a very tiny grin crease his muzzle. He took a second to blow his whistle and yell, "Alright! Take a break! Get some water, stretch, do what you need to do." As the players lining the boards dispersed, Coach urged Marcus away from the bench and towards the opposite end of the ice; away from the rest of his teammates.

"I didn't want to say anything because I didn't think it would matter," Marcus blurted out, almost on the verge of crying. He couldn't help but feel ashamed; like he did something wrong. What was even more concerning was that Coach didn't have a discernable aura about him; an uncertainty the vulpine couldn't prepare for.

Coach wedged his glove in the fold of his arm. "Well, it doesn't."

Marcus blinked. "…What?"

"Look, Marcus," the canine started softly, but sternly. "I'm a mentor to you and the rest of your team. I don't care that you're gay. I don't care that Charlie's gay. I don't even care that you guys are seeing each other. As long as it doesn't affect what you put out on the ice when the puck drops, I don't care what you guys choose to do. You're a consenting adult; I can't make your choices for you."

Marcus wanted to debate the tag he received but he simply let Coach continue.

"Now, as your mentor and coach, I want to see the best in you. Those scouts at the tournament are going to be all eyes on you, Marcus. They know how good you are and they want to see what you can do under pressure. If you crack; you're out of luck and nobody will count on you. If you survive and thrive under pressure, they'll recruit you in a heartbeat. That being said, you can't let your concern for your teammates—or in this case your relationship—interfere with that. I'm actually thrilled that you two find such an interest in each other because that explains why you two have had unbelievable chemistry this season. But, know this…"

Coach paused to lay his paw on Marcus's shoulder again. "Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid of what people are going to think or say about you. Don't be afraid to tell people who you really are. Confidence personally translates into confidence professionally. Don't focus on Charlie, or worry about getting hurt, or stress about letting your team down, or even think about what your teammates will say if you tell them. All that doesn't matter in the big picture. Be yourself. Play your game as best as you can, and your team will play for you too."

Marcus finally let a smile crease his muzzle, the wave of relief finally causing a tear to escape his eye. "Yes, Coach. Thank you, Coach." The vulpine went to skate away, but Coach kept his hold on his pads. Marcus simply turned to face him again.

"And hey," beamed Coach, being mindful of the team behind them by picking up his voice ever so slightly. "Give Charlie a congratulatory kiss in the locker room with the tournament trophy in your hands. That's gonna be the best way to tell the rest of your team, eh?"

Marcus had to laugh at the mental image. "That sounds like a good idea."

"Well, that means you gotta work hard to win it, doesn't it," Coach remarked smugly before slapping his stick on the ice. "Alright! Break time is over! Let's get some more drills done, alright?"

The cerulean vulpine felt the adrenaline rush soon after. All that ever-present anxiety melted into pure energy, denoted by Marcus's spastic tail flicks. Coach blew his whistle, and everyone wearing white skated to one side of the ice while everyone in navy skated to the other. From the blue line to behind the net, every player started skating laps in sort of an oblong circle. Soon after, one by one the players scooped up discarded pucks and skated around with them, keeping them moving while protected within their reach.

Marcus scooped one up right when he skated parallel to the thick blue line. He cut to his left, crossing over his skates to pick up blinding speed as he blitzed into the slot. He pulled his stick back and lifted the blade high above his head before hammering his left arm forward, the blade of his stick instinctively cradling the puck before whipping it forward; all within the blink of an eye. His composite stick flexed like a thin tree branch before whipping forward on the follow through, forcing himself to kick his leg up to stay balanced and moving. The puck he rifled picked the top left corner of the net, bouncing off the netting and rocketing out towards the faceoff circle. The puck had so much velocity that it couldn't have stayed inside the yawning cage for more than half a second.

He felt powerful, Marcus did. Confident. Unstoppable. This sort of power translated into his play for the rest of practice. He wouldn't stop playing in the zone drill. Teammates circled out one after another, switching jerseys to signify switching sides, but the vulpine stayed in the offensive zone. He stayed on his right-wing side, blade facing outwards into the slot whenever he'd receive a pass. It was so natural to him at this point. He could shoot it from the half-boards if he wanted, but he liked to pass. He'd circle around in his little zone of play pressed against the glass more often than not, but Marcus adapted as if his life depended on it. Two guys rushing from the red line: he'd toss it down to the blue-line for one of his defenders. Two rushing from the point; he'd simply shovel it around the boards either to his teammate behind the net or all the way around to the left wing side. Hell, even if three navy jerseys rushed him, he'd feather a pass through the incoming offensive right to the waiting stick of a teammate in the slot; almost a guaranteed goal in most situations. The more passes he put to his team's tape, the more shots he'd fire for rebounds… the more he played, Marcus felt more and more powerful.

Zach wound a pass to Marcus on his spot along the boards. He circled with it, noting that Zach was covered along the boards, and there was no way he'd be able to launch a cross-ice pass to the open defender. The vulpine stayed with it, turning on the jets to try to open up a fresh lane of ice, even going as far down as the blue-line before doubling back just as quick. However, his teammates in navy were guarding him well; forcing him farther and farther down the endboards until he found himself cornered in the curve of the boards. He switched to his senses yet again, feeling one of his defensemen teammates cut down from the middle of the ice over towards the boards. He reacted by shoveling a pass over the navy defender's stick and along the boards to the awaiting defensemen's stick. It was Cal.

Cal loved to shoot the puck.

Marcus immediately worked and fought his way through the skaters in navy, feeling Cal's skates cut over one another on his way towards the middle of the ice. Marcus held his stick tight as he powered into the crease, bumping into the defender covering him, as well as the goaltender. He slipped through, thankfully, and with good timing too. Time seemed to slow down as he saw Cal wind up for a bomb of a slap shot. He wasn't on his wing of choice, as this side of the ice forced him to his backhand as opposed to his forehand, but he could adapt. As he did before, the vulpine tightened his grip and held the blade out in front of the goaltender just as Cal released his cannon of a shot. Marcus quickly realized he was much too close to the goalie to be trying this sort of deflection, but he committed and tried pulling his stick in; instinctively tensing up and turning his face away. The navy defender on the other side gave him a nudge just as the puck left Cal's stick, so Marcus had to twist his skates and his whole body as well just to keep balance.

The puck hit something, but it wasn't his stick. It was the top of his glove, right where the padding extends over the wrist. The sting instinctively made Marcus recoil his arm and drop his stick. The puck careened into the corner where Zach was after bouncing off the vulpine. The adrenaline spiked again, allowing Marcus to slide away from the crease and scoop up his discarded stick. He couldn't feel his right hand at all; but it didn't hurt yet. Marcus slipped over to his usual spot, anticipating a pass back from Zach. As he prepared for the rolling puck, the hybrid gripped his stick until a shot of pain rifled down his right arm when he tried to grip the top of his stick. Marcus panicked, swinging his stick back with one hand to force the puck back up towards Zach. All Marcus could do was watch as Zach floated it into the slot where the center on his side immediately fired the puck into the crest of the goaltender. Coach blew the whistle.

"Ready to switch out now, McCloud?" Coach laughed aloud, tapping his stick on the ice just like the rest of his team. Marcus finally conceded defeat and nodded, allowing one of his teammates to take his place. When Marcus arrived at the bench, Coach gave him a nudge. "I liked the aggressiveness, the intensity in front of the net. If they shove you, shove them back. I wanna see more of that come game-time."

"Yes, Coach," Marcus replied, hiding his wince well. When Coach skated away to watch the play more intently, the vulpine tried to work some feeling into his right wrist. He could move it, thankfully, but the slightest wrong move sent a spike of pain all the way down into his elbow.

The vulpine didn't like to swear, but in his head he was swearing up a storm.

* * *

«II»

* * *

"Does it still hurt?" his dad asked as the younger vulpine wound the ice pack around his right wrist.

"Only when I move it weird," Marcus answered. "I'll be okay."

"If you say so," Fox grinned shyly. "Just keep it iced. We want you to be fully rested for tomorrow."

Marcus nodded. "Yeah, me too." He glanced up at the clock over the television, then out the window, and then back to his wrist. All he could do was sigh. "I'm gonna take a quick shower." He could feel the concern radiate from his parents as he returned the ice pack to the freezer and gingerly stepped upstairs to retrieve clothes. He could tell they were watching, but he couldn't bring himself to look back at them. He simply slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

After stripping down and starting the hot water, Marcus held his arm in front of the bathroom mirror. There was no visible bruise under his fur, nor did it seem swollen compared to his left arm. Whatever that stinger was, it happened to catch him right where his wrist was most sensitive. While he stood there, Marcus combed over the fur he could reach to check for any more bruising. Sometimes the adrenaline rush would mask points of pain, but the pain was so concentrated in his wrist that he could miss those blemishes and not know otherwise. The vulpine took a little extra time combing out stray knots in his fur before stepping into the shower.

Mindful of his wrist, Marcus watched the hot water dampen his fur, weakening the vibrant cerulean into a deep azure. His once fluffy pelt melted into his skin, but still; no discernable bruise on his wrist from the hit. The hot water made his wrist burn a bit, but he simply submerged his head beneath the waterfall and kneaded his wrist with his other paw. The burn faded into a nagging tingle separate from static; this tingle still hurt. Pushing his thumb down and forward, Marcus worked the muscles surrounding his joint, pressing down on the bones and wearing off some of the fur there. Every once in a while, he'd ball his paw or flex his wrist before massaging it again; each time working away some of the pain. Only when he worked his other paw numb did Marcus finally feel a little pain-relieved.

He stepped forward a little, resting his forehead against the shower wall to let the stream pummel the back of his neck. As water streamed down his chest and pooled at his feet, the vulpine started to feel some anxiety creep back. He spent all that time worrying about injury, and the second he lets it slip his mind is when he gets hurt. Typical. Just his luck. The hot water soothing his nerves luckily suppressed his brewing anger and fear. The static wouldn't come back just yet; he was too far wrapped in emotions to let the bliss peek through. Still, it was no different than watching the river flow or watching clouds float by on a fall evening; the hot water made him relax. The underlying anxiety of his injury prevailed even amongst the pervasive steam, but there wasn't anything else he could have done to fight it other than to take a few deep breaths, letting some of the dripping water slip into his yawning maw.

Once he was clean, dry, and brushed, Marcus retreated into his lofted room. The chill of autumn clashed with his freshly steamed fur, so to preserve his warmth he hid underneath his comforter, only appearing as a covered bulge atop his bed. Underneath the comforter, the vulpine continued to nurse his wrist by holding it steady with his other paw and compressing the joint. It seemed to help.

He wanted to cry, Marcus did. Such a visceral and pure release of emotion usually cleared his headspace easier than the static normally did, but something that intense usually sent him into an emotional spiral. Crying released those emotions, but also instilled a feeling of weakness and powerlessness; something directly combative of how he felt during practice. Those clashing emotions would totally ruin Marcus's performance tomorrow, no doubt. Still, he felt ashamed at getting hurt. Coach's words still bounced around in his head so he wasn't completely without hope. He just hated how he got hurt within moments of letting his guard down after promising to himself that he wouldn't. The only thing he could do was hope that the injury wouldn't hamper him. Coach was right; the team counted on him playing his best. He couldn't let them down; not after last practice. He had to stay strong and—like Coach told him—be confident in himself.

His nightstand vibrated at him. The vulpine slipped out from underneath his covers and checked his phone he left there. He got a message from Charlie. Marcus immediately perked up and checked what the coyote sent him, tail gently wagging and patting his covers.

 ** _Look outside._**

Marcus wasted no time. He immediately bolted from his bed and ran downstairs, catching both his mother and father off-guard. He couldn't process what either of them said as he ran to the window and looked outside. At the entrance of the parking garage stood a simple figure waving at the window. Marcus almost screamed in delight as he bolted right back upstairs, threw his rink suit on, ran right back down the stairs again to toss his boots on, and bolt out the front door in seconds flat; leaving his parent bewildered.

Charlie met Marcus at the access door he always entered and exited, and the two instantly embraced. "Surprise, dork," Charlie laughed, returning the tight hug thrown at him.

"What are you doing here?" Marcus asked frantically, yet joyfully. "I didn't see you at school today, you weren't at practice, I—"

"Marcus, I'm fine!" laughed Charlie, working his usual magic to calm the hybrid vulpine down. "Really, I'm okay. I just wanted to drop by the day before the tournament to talk a little strategy."

"Strategy?" Marcus echoed quizzically. "Why do you need to talk strategy when you're—" he quickly cut himself off and gasped. " _You're cleared?!"_

"Every doctor I went to said I was okay to play," said Charlie moments before getting a more powerful and tender hug from the vulpine. Marcus deeply exhaled overtop the canine's shoulder, relief shedding his body so quickly that a wave of static blasted him and nearly made him collapse into the embrace. Charlie simply held the vulpine up, returning the gesture as best he could.

"That's such a relief," Marcus sighed loudly. "I didn't know how I'd play without my center."

"And I'm glad to have my winger on my line again," the canine smiled at the cheesy comment. "Wanna practice with me to get me warmed up? I brought my stick too."

Marcus needed no second invitation as he quickly ran back up to his apartment to scoop his stick and gloves up before immediately running right back down. He met back up with Charlie, and the two scaled the parking garage stairs to get to the top; right to Marcus's usual position. However, this time there was a car right in the parking spot that his shooting box was in. Charlie's car.

"I had an idea," Charlie started, slapping the worn-out tennis ball from Marcus's paw and instantly taking control of it with his stick. "I wanna see if those weeks away put some rust on our passing."

"Passing?" Marcus almost laughed. "You're serious—"

"Wait," Charlie interrupted, stepping towards the vulpine. He unwound the scarf usually around his neck and held it out. "You can't look."

Marcus nodded, allowing the coyote to wrap the scarf around his eyes and tie it tight. It was still warm, and it smelled like Charlie too. In that moment he had a better understanding of Charlie's weird obsession with scents.

Marcus couldn't see anything, but he could feel Charlie's boots step backwards. In amongst the blackness, he started to visualize his surroundings just by his senses. The sound of his and Charlie's boots stepping on concrete, the feeling of the ball rolling around… He could understand it.

Charlie rifled a pass to him, and in that split second he tracked where the ball was rolling to and flipped his stick to the backhand to intercept the pass and control it. While in control, he felt the canine take a few hurried steps to his left and anticipated he wouldn't be stopping. He swapped to his left-hand side and fired the ball back. All he heard was the slap of the ball on the blade of Charlie's stick. Perfect.

Charlie started walking forward and shot the ball back. Marcus easily handled it, but noted Charlie was running straight for him. He tapped the ball back right to the coyote's dragging blade. Charlie simply touched it back to him, still moving forward. Marcus pivoted his feet and backed up to corral the errant ball before rifling it back in one smooth motion. He then stepped forward when he traced his boyfriend's steps back towards himself. Before Charlie could pass it back, the fox slipped the upward curve of his blade underneath Charlie's stick's heel, flicking the stick upward. Marcus swiped the ball from the canine, spinning around and pacing backwards with the ball in his control as Charlie stood still, chuckling.

"Good," he exhaled. Marcus could feel the plume of fog expel from his lungs at that exhale. "Keep moving. Don't stop."

Charlie started moving again, so the blue fox shot a pass his direction again while tracing his own path out. Ten, twenty, thirty passes back and forth, tape-to-tape. They just kept shooting the ball right back to the other's stick with ease. Marcus still couldn't see a thing, but he could feel his confidence building even more. This just felt so easy and so natural to him as if this was what he was put into the universe to do. It didn't matter if he was launching the ball across the parking garage or feathering it behind him on his backhand; they all just seemed to gravitate towards his boyfriend's stick. Neither could miss; neither wanted to miss. Back and forth, again and again, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty—

A rough, glancing pass forced Marcus to put a little more pressure on the top of his stick to corral the errant pass. As soon as the ball hit his stick, a shockwave carried up the length of the composite until it reached Marcus's right hand. The sting returned in an instant; scaring the vulpine and making him yelp and drop his stick. The ball bounced off the wall of the parking garage and rolled into the crook of his discarded stick while Marcus recoiled from his spot and started to walk off the sting, waving his right arm towards the ground. Marcus heard and felt Charlie drop his stick on the concrete, followed by quick and heavy footsteps running towards him.

"Marcus!" Charlie shouted, stopping just out of the fox's pacing range. "Are you okay?"

The vulpine threw his gloves down and managed to untie the scarf from his eyes with one hand, to which Charlie took from him when he returned. He held his injured right wrist with a vice-grip, almost hoping that he could squeeze the pain out through his fingertips, or just be able to sever his hand to not feel pain anymore.

Marcus winced. "Got hit with a stinger at practice today," he explained.

"Oh shit," Charlie swore, and he never swore like that. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you—"

"It's not your fault; I didn't give it enough rest," Marcus interrupted, managing to calm his pacing down to where he could cross his legs and sit on the cold concrete. He liked the feeling of it, so he pressed his nagging wrist against the cold to hopefully kill the pain. He kneaded the joint like he did in the shower, but it wasn't wanting to relax like it did then. A wave of frustration hit Marcus as he unfolded his legs and slammed one of his boots on the concrete. A shrill bark of anger followed.

Charlie concernedly dropped to his knees to investigate. "You're gonna be okay," he assured him.

"This is exactly what I was afraid of," he fumed, muzzle pointed at the ground. "The day before the most important tournament of our lives and I get hurt. Why do I have to get hurt now!?"

"Marcus," Charlie implored, risking injury himself as he slipped beside the vulpine to hold him down with a tender embrace. "Hey, hold on buddy, hold on. It's fine. Seriously, it's gonna be fine. Breathe. You're okay."

The coyote's tight grasp certainly squeezed out the anger he had in seconds flat, but his fear wouldn't be deterred. Charlie did everything in his power to calm him down, speaking softly to try to invoke the static he knew he loved. There were a few painfully long moments of complete silence; only disrupted by the sound of wind blowing around the parking garage. If the rage slowly leaving the blue fox's body could make a sound, the wind probably swept it away.

"You're stronger," Charlie started gently, speaking directly into Marcus's right ear. "This is just your body wanting you to quit. I know how it is. It's everything that's ever tried to keep you down. Don't let it win. You're stronger than it."

Marcus stayed silent, breathing deeply to lower his heartrate.

"You can fight through this," continued Charlie, tightening his hold on his boyfriend. "I know you can fight through it. Don't feel discouraged."

The blue vulpine let his head fall and rest on Charlie's shoulder. "You're right," he replied. "Sorry for freaking out."

"It's okay," Charlie stood up, then helped Marcus to his feet as well. "I'd be scared too. Just know that I believe in you, eh?"

Marcus smiled, then gave Charlie another hearty embrace. Hugging it out was a very constructive way to release some pent-up emotions. It was even better this time around because he could sense Charlie's caring interest. He wanted him to feel better, so he held on tighter.

"Look, I've got something for you," Charlie started as he pulled away. "So, I got new laces for my skates, but they always make the laces too long. You know how small my skates are. So, I cut them down to fit, then added a snap to it and, here."

The coyote pulled a small bracelet out of his pocket, a bracelet made out of the soft skate laces. Instead of a normal white or black, these laces had a vibrant gradient rainbow smeared across the lace, only broken up by a small crosshatch of black to diversify the pattern. Charlie grinned as he gently held Marcus's right arm and snapped the bracelet overtop his injured wrist. The fox just stared at the gift, examining it with his other paw.

"I know what you said last time I was here," Charlie started sheepishly. "But I had just enough to fit you, and I made one for myself—" here Charlie pulled his right sleeve back to show off his own rainbow bracelet. "—and I thought it would be… you know, cool to show off. I mean… I know it's really gay but… I care a lot about you, so it's kinda a little symbol of that, eh?"

Marcus spun the little bracelet around his wrist and sighed. "Charlie, you know I'm not—" he looked up and trailed off. There was such a powerful aura emanating from the canine to the point where he looked like he was glowing. Marcus was stunned silent; he had never seen this sort of thing before. This aura that lit his outline up radiated of care and compassion; full of… full of love.

The static that ensued made his ears flutter and his tail flick wildly. This static was so powerful that any sort of pain in his wrist, and anxiety still left in his gut, and any other negative emotion evaporated until he noticed that his own aura seemed to glow. Charlie couldn't see it, but Marcus had his senses overloaded. His fingers began to twitch and curl a little, his whiskers vibrated, his ears continued to flutter as if he were signaling an airplane, and his heart yearned to leap through his ribcage.

"You know what?" Marcus began timidly, but that almost instantly faded away. "Screw it. I'm gay for you."

He lunged forward and grabbed the collar of Charlie's coat and yanked him in to make their muzzles meet. Charlie was surprised for all of half a second before he melted into the kiss and pushed it deeper. Acting on instinct—since it was his and Charlie's first kiss—the vulpine just let the moment carry him as Charlie snaked his hands behind him to hold him close. Being as it was a bit of an impulse moment, the two guys didn't know how to adapt to the spontaneity of the kiss right away, but given a handful of seconds to adapt let them lend their whole body to the moment. Tongue and all; they explored one another with just the slightest amount of movement, nearly fighting with each other to get dominance even though they both didn't care who won.

Charlie pulled back with a gasp as did Marcus; both of their hearts begging to break free of their owner's chest. Marcus wanted to speak, but couldn't muster the strength to. In fact, once he knew Charlie had caught his breath back, he leaned in for a second round to which the coyote happily accepted. For Marcus, the intensity of the static in his head solidified his decision to act out. He almost thought his brain would melt with the high tide of immense static washing over him. As the seconds ticked on, the euphoric blend of physical and mental static bombarding him on all sides only exponentiated. Charlie only added to the feeling by getting more hands-y in his embrace; gently caressing the same places in the same manner as always, only this was much more tender despite the elements outside.

Once more, Marcus retreated to retrieve some air, but this time Charlie initiated another kiss and he couldn't tell his boyfriend no. Out of all three so far, this one felt the most intense. Both Charlie and Marcus gave in to their desires and fought for supremacy, meshing their muzzles together and shamelessly waging war with their tongues. The cold wind outside was negligible in their bubble of warmth and safety. In this moment, they were untouchable. Nothing could separate them. Except for air.

Upon releasing the kiss this time for a breather, Charlie just started laughing softly, eventually turning into a giddy, hearty laugh as Marcus panted for breath.

"Marcus," Charlie gasped, eyes wide and smile wider. "Marcus, that… was incredible!"

The vulpine couldn't reply; he could only laugh along as the static nearly overwhelmed him.

"My gosh, and the static too," beamed the canine, tail wagging furiously behind him. "You loved it just as much as I did!"

"I did love it," Marcus chuckled softly, the massive blush adding a deep burn to the static in his mind.

Charlie took a step forward. "So… does that mean…?" he trailed off, himself blushing just as bad as Marcus.

"Yes, you big dork; I love you too," Marcus blurted out, unable to stop himself from leaning into another passionate kiss. He could feel Charlie screaming in delight as the fox fought to keep the coyote's muzzle trained on his own. Yet again, the two lovebirds stayed connected until they needed to gasp for air many seconds later, still all smiles and tail wags.

"I love you too," Charlie affectionately cooed, but didn't go in for another kiss. Instead, he continued, "You're a great kisser," and gave him a lusty stare.

"Not bad for my first, I guess," the vulpine teased.

"I would have never guessed," Charlie grinned back.

"Want another?"

The coyote just smiled, visibly the happiest he's ever been as he initiated another kiss. Marcus merely leaned into it again, letting the static build and bloom within him as every last bit of pain in his being merely faded into the wind.

* * *

«II»

* * *

Wow, what an environment. It still didn't sink in for Marcus as the second period rolled around. In the suburbs north of Corneria City resided Assembly Hall; a relatively massive indoor stadium that has since been flooded and painted for a high-spirited tournament of hockey. Marcus had only ever played in rinks that could seat a hundred people, if that. Now, in this incredible venue, he was being watched by thousands.

The first twenty-minute period was uneventful; just Marcus learning to adapt to such a wild and raucous crowd cheering from all angles. The score was knotted up at zeros, but after the first intermission, there were twenty guys on either bench itching to blow this game wide open; Marcus being the most eager out of all of them.

He and all of his teammates in white were very eager to get the scoring going, but the other team in red weren't making it easy. They were mean, those guys in red. Bigger and stronger; and they sure liked to play that way. Marcus was lucky that his wrist didn't act up when those strong players bumped and roughed him up at every opportunity. But, Coach noticed something that most of the team did as well. They played physical because they knew their opponents were more skilled. If they couldn't _skill_ their way into a goal, they could buy one with brute strength. Marcus knew what he needed to do.

Coach's top line of Schenn, Boeser, and McCloud—left, right, and center respectively—took the ice, followed by Reilly and Stone as the defensive pairing. Being as it was still a scoreless game, there was that returning sense of urgency about all ten skaters on the ice. They needed to get off to a hot start to burn the other team out, get them to soften up so they could make those dirty plays work. Wearing them out would either allow Marcus and his team to work into dirty areas on account of the other team wanting to play smarter and less aggressive… or it would piss them off and make their job harder. Either way, breaking that tie was important.

Charlie idly skated around center ice, to which Marcus practiced his focus by homing in on the rainbow laces on his skates. He was a right-handed shot as opposed to Marcus's left, but it usually worked out that way given Marcus's preference of wing and their skating ability. It was a shame that the other team's defense wouldn't let them showcase that skating ability; they were consistently quick on their feet but the defense found it easy to stifle their rush. Charlie wandered over to the center dot to await the opening draw, hunched over his stick for leverage. He glanced at Marcus on his way there and smiled through the iron cage over his face. Even in this tense environment with the stakes as high as they were, the coyote still found time to give him a wave of static.

The black and white striped referee skated to center where Charlie met the other center for the opening faceoff. As was the case for this game, Charlie simply got overpowered once the puck fell, losing the draw and being forced to back off as the other team's defense started a play. Marcus kept his man within reach as both teams smacked and clawed their way into a better position, fighting for that tiny disk of rubber. Eventually, the vulpine got tired chasing his guy and fighting with him to where he and the rest of his line switched out for different players once Cal cleared the puck out of their zone.

Most of the game revolved around getting that sort of upper hand; both teams starting to get gritty and nasty as the halfway point rolled on without a score. The other team made the first mistake, as one of their wingers got his stick caught up with Cal and tripped him. It was off to the penalty box for that player. As he tried to plead his case to the officials, Marcus and his line took the ice for a power-play; in which the team who took the penalty must settle for four skaters as opposed to the usual five. This was Marcus's chance to blow this game wide open.

The blue vulpine messed with his helmet as he skated to the edge of the red circle, watching Charlie adjust his hold on his stick before taking the draw. Once again, Charlie wasn't strong enough to put his body in the way of the faceoff as he lost the puck into the corner. Marcus rushed down his man and managed to poke his stick far enough out to wind the rubber around the boards, where Zach had backed up to control it. Time to set up shop.

Coach liked to run an umbrella play as a reference to the position of everyone on the ice. In this sort of power-play setup, one defenseman (which was usually the left-handed Cal) would hug the blue line while the other defensemen would take either the left-wing or the right-wing position along the boards, right in the wheelhouse of the faceoff circle. The center would stand put in the slot to draw away some of the attention from the wingers, while the remaining player would camp out in front of the net to try and screen the goaltender so that he wouldn't be able to see the puck—a legal move just so long as you don't bump into the padded netminder. What Coach liked to do for this play was play Cal as the only defenseman, allowing another forward to take the ice in his place. The massive six-foot-four white wolf Luke Myers—usually the center on the second line—fit the bill as the screener. Zach and Marcus became the wingers, while Charlie held the middle of the ice.

For most of the power-play's runtime, the same players would make the same passes to try to open up the ice. Marcus liked to receive passes from Cal because Marcus had that left-handed shot while being on the right side of the ice—it made it easy to maneuver, especially when the other team didn't like to pressure the wingers and collapse in front of the net to try and block shots. Cal would go to Marcus if he didn't have a lane, Marcus would go back to Cal, Cal over to Zach, and back again. Meanwhile, Luke roughed his way into the deep slot to try to park his heavy frame in front of the goaltender. Charlie was double-teamed on either side just to make sure he didn't get a pass. This gave Marcus and Zach full ownership of their respective half of the offensive zone, even going so far as to bank a pass to one another off the endboards behind the net.

The vulpine idly skated in and out of the faceoff dot, hoping one of the defensemen would get baited to go after him so he could set up Charlie. He could feel the coyote begging for that pass, itching to bomb it past the unsuspecting goaltender. If only he was open to take it. With how reactionary the other team's players were, Marcus came up with an idea on the fly. He passed back to Cal, and while the husky kept an eye on the open ice, Marcus lifted his stick high. Usually this was a universal signal to feather a pass back to that player to let loose a vicious slap-shot on the follow-through, called a one-timer. Right when Cal put the puck in motion, Marcus turned his head to Charlie and barked—

 _"BACK!"_

Almost instantly, Charlie pivoted his skates to face Marcus and backed up out of the range of the other players, almost over to the edge of the faceoff hashes. The other team saw Marcus lift his stick and angled themselves to block the incoming shot, even going so far as to skate towards him to pressure him in case he would shank the shot. Spoiler alert; Marcus never shanked his shots. The vulpine had to smirk to himself, however, when he saw the middle of the ice part wide open like a theological sea.

Instead of blasting the incoming shot, Marcus dropped his stick down and leaned on the blade once the puck got delivered to his tape, cradling the shot in the curve. He turned ever so slightly, and in one fluid motion picked his foot up and dished the puck right into the middle of the ice, in between the legs of one of the players in red. All he could do was watch as Charlie picked his stick up parallel to the ice and bombed the incoming pass before even receiving it. The goaltender had no chance of seeing the pass with Luke in front, so the one-timer from Charlie rippled the back of the netting to open the scoring in their first tournament game. Goal Boeser; assist McCloud and Reilly.

Marcus celebrated with the rest of his team in the slot before skating off towards the bench. He couldn't hear what Coach had to say to all of them since the adrenaline spike almost neutralized all of his senses into one big blob. While his nervousness in relation to the game diminished ever so slightly, he had to take a heavy exhale and realize that his team had the lead because of his play calling. He did what he set himself out to do, and he was rewarded for it…

…up until the very next play. Dad often reminded him something an old rival always told him: _don't get too cocky._ In a matter of half a minute while sitting helplessly on the bench, he watched as the red team angrily powered into their zone, proceeded to work within the confides of the rules to rough their way into a prime scoring position and capitalize on it. Just like that, Marcus's excitement deflated as the puck wound up in the back of his team's net exactly forty-three seconds after they finally broke the scoreless tie. Now it was tied at one.

He didn't let himself get discouraged. In fact, he took the ice right after that goal was allowed and vowed to break the tie in his favor again. With Charlie, Zach, and Cal on the ice together with him, Marcus devised a few plans in his head. Hopefully one of them could be used.

As much as he loved Charlie, he anticipated him losing another faceoff, which he did. As soon as the puck left the ref's paw, Marcus blew by his man and darted into the middle of the ice just behind the other team's center. As the puck won by the center floated towards the other team's defense, the vulpine shoved his stick out to disrupt the drop-back win, immediately recovering the puck as he slipped his stick overtop it while powering his legs forward to get a nasty burst of speed. He carried so much speed that he almost immediately needed to turn and accelerate on his curve, which he did and stepped over the blue-line with ease. He caught the entire defense pairing flat-footed as he soared past them as a streak of blue and white.

The fox had an angled view at the goaltender and the cage behind him. The netminder had to come out wide to cut the angle Marcus had on the open net. However, he did notice there was a sliver of open net on the goalie's far side; the right side of the net as opposed to the left side he was skating down on. He could either shoot at an opening that might've been as wide as the puck itself, or keep his speed up and try to make the goalie move. He axed the latter plan on the grounds of not having enough speed, as he noticed the defensemen starting to catch up on him as he powered towards the goal.

Marcus had to shoot. He took a stride to put himself on his right leg, then forced the weight onto his left leg as he kicked his right leg out, pushing down on the shaft of his stick. The blade soon whipped forward on his follow-through, rocketing the puck towards the far side of the net, aimed between the goalie's glove and his leg pads. The goalie couldn't react to that laser of a shot as it surgically slipped through the smallest opening in the goalie's armor.

You know what _does_ have impenetrable armor? The right post. An audible **_CLANK_** filled the arena as the puck simply bounced off the middle of the iron bar and popped out towards the boards on the right side of the ice. The crowd expressed their displeasure with the post almost in unison with Marcus's own loud exhale.

The bouncing puck ended up on the stick of one of the trailing wingers, but Cal worked his magic and pinched down from his usual position to contest the winger. A scrum ensued along the plexiglass, but Cal was able to wedge the puck free and roll it down the boards. Zach caught up with it, and before he was chased off, he circled around the back of the net to get back onto his natural wing. Marcus caught this fact early and passed him up going the other way, but not before Zach dropped the puck off behind the cage so that the fox could scoop it up.

With everyone set up naturally, Marcus took inventory of his options. Zach was open around the endboards but he didn't trust the snow buildup against the boards to smoothly execute his pass; he almost fell just trying to slip around it to get to his current spot. Cal was along the blue line, but one of the red team's sticks could easily disrupt that pass down to the point. The other defenseman was too far away, and Charlie was covered up in the slot. He was on his own for a little bit until he could free up some open space like he did on the power-play. Only this time it was even-strength; everyone had a man on them. Not unless Marcus could force a mistake.

Marcus spun on a dime and skated back up towards the endboards. Charlie seemed to follow, rolling out of the slot and along the boards, while Zach cycled into the slot to take his place. On his way around the boards, Marcus flipped the puck backwards for Charlie to take. While the blue vulpine crossed over into Zach's territory, Charlie followed Marcus exactly by rolling up the boards and dropping the pass to Zach, who had escaped the slot and moved down the ice to take the open position. It was working; his line was just too fast to be held back. Marcus fought his way through the slot and onto the other side of the ice, where Zach dropped the puck back for him. Just when the red team was beginning to catch on, Marcus slammed on the brakes, scattering a plume of snow as he transferred his weight into a pass back to the blue line for Cal to receive. He put everything he had into a heavy slapshot, but the goalie saw it all the way and easily kicked it aside. Problem was, he kicked it straight to Zach's wheelhouse.

The Aussie banked a pass off the endboards, where Marcus met it along the side of the net. With the snow behind the net mostly cleared from their previous cycle, he immediately shot it back to him before he could get hit. He got shoved by the defender on the follow-through, so he angled his skate to try and stay up, but his other skate got caught up on the frame of the goal, making him lose his footing and stumble into the boards. He tried to break his fall by holding out his arms, but that only succeeded in hurting something. That damn right wrist again. Marcus fought back a scream of pain as he scrambled to his feet, forcing himself back into the play. He shook his entire arm to try to shake the pain away, but it was no use.

He could tell he and his teammates were starting to lose a bit of spring in their step for being on the ice for so long, but they were keeping up the offensive pressure and making the red team lose their luster as well. As much as breathing burned and his wrist screamed out in immense pain, he fought through and continued to skate around, looking for openings while continuously keeping the play alive. He could smell blood in the water when it came to this other team. They couldn't get fresh legs on the ice, which meant their older legs were getting slower and tired. While his team were starting to get slow and tired as well, they were still faster. They were still more skilled. Tiring out the giants was their key to a goal.

Marcus camped out in his wheelhouse—just outside the bottom of the hashmarks near the faceoff circle. He had to keep moving around that wide circle just to keep his stick free, but he still made his plays around the outside of the rink towards the boards. Every now and again he would scoop up a pass from Cal at the blue line and try to shoot it, but the goalie would just lower his pads and deflect it away. He could never cover the puck to get a stoppage in play, so they continued this display of dominance as their shift time topped a minute and a half. The average shift length was just over thirty seconds.

Marcus and Zach had a little bit of fun banking their passes back and forth, but it eventually had to come to an end as one of the defensemen got in that passing lane, forcing Zach to call an audible and move. Marcus tracked his teammates skate movements on the ice, hopeful that some sort of opening would reveal itself. Alas, all he could do was watch Zach try his hardest to do the same, eventually passing it down to Charlie for the coyote to bat down to the blue-line for Cal.

Cal loved to shoot the puck.

He saw his lane, wound up his stick, and followed through with a cannon of a shot that most professional players would be envious of. The shot got blocked by a player in red right in the middle of the slot, the force heavy enough to knock the player down and stun him. Since the puck trickled back to Charlie after the blast, they couldn't blow the play dead because the red team didn't have possession. Charlie took his opening and shot a perfect pass to Marcus, but he couldn't shoot. He panicked and rifled it back to Charlie. It almost glanced past the blade of his stick, but his boyfriend was able to corral the stinger of a pass and awkwardly throw it on net.

The knuckler of a shot was saved by the goaltender's glove, but the sheer unpredictability of the shot made the goalie bobble the puck as he fell on his backside, popping the puck high in the air. With Charlie tied up, Marcus wrestled free of his man and barreled through the faceoff dot towards the slot; keeping his watchful eyes and his senses homed in on this golden opportunity. He didn't care how fast he was going or where he'd end up after making the play, but to him he saw an open puck that he could bat into the back of a yawning cage. With his eyes never leaving the glorious disk of rubber, Marcus angled the shaft of his stick horizontal; eying the blade of his stick towards the puck. With the goalie on his backside, there was no chance of him stopping the batted puck. This was his goal.

Marcus followed through at the right moment, tapping the puck with his stick in a forward direction; the downward trajectory headed straight for the back of the net. However, while focusing on that loose puck crossing over the red goal-line, Marcus failed to recognize where his legs were. With the goalie down, his pads stayed firmly placed in the blue paint as Marcus skated full speed into them. They didn't budge, so Marcus felt his world start to pivot as his body continued forward.

There was no time in the world to react as he fell forward and blasted his face on the unforgiving crossbar.

His world went dark immediately after.

* * *

«II»


End file.
